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"I remember you now," said Jim Morlake; "though you have altered a little since I saw you last."

Mr. Marborne looked up at the carved ceiling.

"Beautiful bit of work there; they couldn't do it in this country, or any other," he said. "You've got a lovely place. Nobody would imagine, walking on Bond Street, that there was a real Moorish room within half-a-dozen paces."

He had found what he needed: it lay in the shadow at the back of the stationery rack—a small leather folder on which he could see, even at that distance, three initials. It was too small for a pocket-book, and he guessed it to be a little stamp case until, nearer at hand, he saw that it held a clip of flat matches.

Rising from the divan, he strolled across the room until he stood opposite the watchful man, his hands resting on the desk. Presently:

"I have no business whatever to interrupt a busy person like you," he said, "but I thought, as I was in London for a day, I'd give you a call. It was not inconvenient, I hope?"

His fingers had touched the match case and closed over it. To slip the little leather folder into his pocket was unnecessary: it was so small that he could palm it.